


People's Parties / Until The End of the World

by MissEllaVation



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-11-23 12:24:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11402352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissEllaVation/pseuds/MissEllaVation
Summary: Taking it to the next level, late in 1991. Beginning with a completely made-up “listening party,” which I suppose could have actually happened. Leading elsewhere.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of notes this time; sorry. A good friend of mine who is not an AO3 person (though she must be lurking…) asked me recently me why people write E as a top and B as a bottom. Okay, I didn’t even like typing that. I’m SO not an authority on this kind of thing. I can only write about characters behaving the way I feel they would behave. And this is where writing slash gets sketchy anyway, because I would never presume that I’m writing about a “realistic” gay couple. I’m just writing about these beautiful people who fell in love with each other’s souls, and consequently with each other’s bodies—even though loving male bodies isn’t their default setting. Can this happen in real life? I mean, yeah? We’re all pretty comfortable with the idea that sexuality exists on a continuum, right? So mightn’t “roles” within relationships also not necessarily be fixed? Anyway, for me, it’s all about love, passion, and doubt—and silly banter, because these two people are friends before everything else. Throw in some serious conversation, some work, and everything else that people have and do together. Long story long, I can only write them as they reveal themselves to me, real world be damned. (The real world sucks more ass than any slash writer could ever dream up anyway, let’s face it.) Friend asked, I answered.
> 
> —I remain, yours truly etc., The Reluctant Pornographer
> 
> P.S. I also think the idea of rampant horndog Bono being tamed by quiet, authoritative Edge just appeals to people. A reversal of expectation, perhaps. 
> 
> P.P.S. “People’s Parties” is a song from Joni Mitchell’s 1974 album, “Court and Spark.” "Eyes big love crumbs" is from [this poem](http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2009/10/14) by e.e. cummings.
> 
> P.P.P.S. If you’ve read my stuff before, this fic is sort of a continuation of Unity and I’m Your Fan. I have a certain head canon timeline for these guys, and I seem to be sticking with it. Also, I’m not sure why Edge keeps coming across so jealous? I guess that’s all me. :/
> 
> P.P.P.P.S. Thanks to the usual suspects: Spacemonkey, Likeamadonna, Fouroux, and Keyser Soze. And! To all readers, kudo-ers, lurkers, and wevs. A Million thanks.

**People's Parties**

_All the people at this party, they’ve got a lot of style. They’ve got stamps of many countries, they’ve got passport smiles._

This isn’t the song that should be in my head right now, yet it’s crept up on me, furtively, from a room in my deep past. A rainy afternoon, a shag carpet, a neighbor’s record player plastered with dayglo flowers.

Meanwhile, in the present, one of our own new songs is being pumped out through a state-of-the-art sound system. Our new record. Advance pressings have already been sent to the important magazines and the high-profile critics, but most of our guests here tonight haven’t heard it yet. Too late to change anything if they hate it! But they won’t hate it. Will they? Of course they won’t.

The critics have praised us for “lightening up.” They have also praised us for becoming “darkly sexual.” Which critique is the truth? My answer would be, “Yes.” This is the record I threw my entire being into. My mind, my soul, and even my body. _You_ know what I mean.

Now I’m standing alone with three hundred of my closest friends inside a grotesquely exclusive club. The lights are like migraine auras, pulsing violet and white in time with the music. _You_ , Bono, stand at the center of a huddle, already rubbing your eyes. It’s clear to me that every single person in that huddle wants something from you—your mind, your soul, your body. Or even just the brief, sweeping beacon of your approval.

Your amplified voice purrs, rubs itself against the walls of this place, and yet that older song just won’t let me be. All the people at this party. _Some are friendly, some are cutting, some are watching it from the wings. Some are standing in the center, giving to get something._

Of course I’m not exactly watching from the wings, am I. Like you, I’m at the center of my own little maelstrom, talking to anyone who sidles up to me. Lots of sidlers here tonight. I’m talking. I’m smiling. I’m drinking too much. I’m even telling jokes.

And our songs sound so incredible, don’t they? If I weren’t in this band already I’d want to be in it. Even the album cover is gorgeous, sexy, arrogant. A real peacock tail of an album cover. None of us can stop looking at it. Are we really those same lads from the cover of October? Really? 

I’ve allowed myself to be transformed a few times over the last ten years, from a lovable moptop, to a Joe Strummer type, to some kind of itinerant tinker/pirate, to whatever I am now—a campy space-age biker, I think. It’s not bad. I’m wearing a couple of layers of sleeveless shirts (you like this) over black, rhinestone-bedecked trousers. My hair is twisted into a little knot at the nape of my neck (you like this too) and a knit cap hides the fact that I’m nearly as bald as my dad on top. (You even like this. At least I think you do. I’m not sure about anything tonight, though I’m trying very hard, via the use of libations, to give myself over to the carnival atmosphere.) 

_You’ve_ had your hair cut into a sleek shape, your own creation I think, postmodern-Elvis, combed back behind your ears and spilling down your neck. It’s as black as india ink, and it matches your iridescent suit and your gleaming boots. 

Once, when I was little, I licked my sister’s patent leather shoe. It was just lying there, upside-down on the stairs, driving me mad. So shiny. I think I imagined it would have a dark, sweet flavor, somewhere between chocolate icing and licorice bits, but it only tasted of shoe. Not terrible, all things considered; cool and smooth. I would put my tongue on _you_ right now, Bono, if only I could. You are all patent leather, except for your pretty white face, a crescent moon in profile, and I can’t look away as you lean toward one of your Hollywood admirers and plant a kiss on her cheek, leaving her pink and feverish.

I’m not sure I can take a whole night of this. Let alone a world tour. _A world tour._

“Hey Edge, dance with me!”

This is L___, one of the fashion-industry sylphs who’ve become our friends over the last couple of years. She’s a lovely girl—can certainly wear a backless dress—and very bright as well, but in the depths of my soul there lurks a staunch old Protestant who feels that merely being photographed in expensive clothing shouldn’t be called work, especially if you’ve inherited the tools of your trade from your parents. But I allow her to grab my hand, and I join her in a grindy little dance. I mean, I’m not crazy.

You disagree with me about the models, I know. You think they’re the modern equivalent of silent film stars, using their enormous eyes and pneumatic lips to reflect our deepest dreams and desires back to us. “Us” meaning society in general, not you and me. Probably. Again, I’m not sure this can be considered work, or art, and I’m not sure it does anyone much good. And I know that we have wonderful, dedicated fans out there in the world who do work very hard and who would never be allowed into this club. 

But modeling is what L___ does, and it’s brought her here, and I like her quite a lot and I’m not going to be an asshole about her job. She’s not an asshole about my job either. Fair play to us both. 

And so we dance. The DJ is playing our album out of sequence, so we’re dancing to Mysterious Ways. Good thing, because dancing to Love Is Blindness or One would be a bit difficult. L___ is grabbing my ass playfully, and I’m fine for the moment. You’re over there flirting with America’s Sweetheart, and I’m doing alright as well.

It’s alright.

Though I do worry sometimes about your incautiousness. Is Ali due to show up here at some point tonight? Or has she gracefully bowed out? I both admire and fear her superhuman restraint. Which is a worse betrayal of her, I wonder: you with America’s Sweetheart, or you with me? Oh God. I don’t understand anything anymore. I hate the idea of hurting her. I just wish you weren’t so far away, even while we’re in the very same room. So close.

Adam bumps up against me, looking flash in a neon-green shirt and updated Miami Vice-style jacket. His trousers are made of some lightweight fabric that draw attention to his various assets; his hair is shorn and blonded-up. There is absolutely no Joshua Tree left in Adam.

“Good evening, M’Edge.” Addressing me, but peering over his spectacles at L___.

“What did you just call me?”

“M’Edge. Haven’t I heard Bono call you that? I think it’s quite funny. M’Edge. As if he owns you.”

“He does own me. Here.” I push L___ gently into Adam’s arms. She goes willingly. A grand girl, but I can’t give her my full attention at the moment. 

I look around for a drink, and a waitress appears as if by magic, shoving a tray under my nose. Is this club is so exclusive that the staff are required to have ESP? Anything seems possible right now. The tray holds shot glasses of a fiery red liquid. Little glasses of lava.

“Cheers.” I gulp the contents of one glass—not so much lava as cocktail cherry dissolved in hydrochloric acid—then put the empty glass on the tray and grab another before the waitress can get away. I need to be a little bit numb to face the rest of the night. 

You’re my best friend, Bono, and I love you. And I can’t take my eyes off you. We’ve been in this pattern for a while now, haven’t we? I have known you; I have loved you. I know I have you, but I also know I can never _have_ you. And I’ve just told Adam that you own me, for fuck’s sake. I don’t think he noticed, but still. This can only end badly.

L___ comes lurching back to me on her stiletto heels. L___ is tipsy. She shrieks above the music. “You know why you and Bono look so great together?”

The cherry bomb shots turn molten in my gullet. 

“No. Why do we look so great together, drunk girl?”

L___ bunches up her fine forehead, searching for words. “Because Bono,” she says, “the way his face is, he looks like, I don’t know, it’s something about his nose and mouth, he looks so hungry, like a hungry demon, he looks like he wants to put the whole world into his mouth, and then fuck it.”

“Oh my goodness.”

“And you—” poking me in the chest with a purple fingernail—“you’re beautiful, but in this opposite way. Your features are, like, harmonious. You always look so calm.”

“That’s me, calm.”

“I know!” Toothy grin. “So calm and peaceful and almost radiant? And sort of zen. Does that make any sense?”

“You make loads of sense, drunk girl.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Then stop being that.”

“Why should I?”

“Because when you’re drunk you say weird things that make me uncomfortable.”

L__ leans back, pulls her chin in, and looks at me. “Interesting,” she says.

Fortunately, her attention is diverted by the deeply distorted guitar fanfare— _squelched_ , I call it—that opens Until The End of the World. It’s funny to watch so many people stop in their tracks and look up at the ceiling, as if the song is descending on them from above. In a way, it is.

I think this might just be the best song we’ve ever made, and I want to see how everyone reacts. They’re already bouncing a bit to the bass and drums—not pogoing, but just bouncing over their designer shoes in a way that looks promising to me. Now me. Ah, the people are really bouncing now. Now you—your voice. Lower register, with a trace of a snarl. _Haven’t seen you in quite a while…_ and I feel warm suddenly, as if someone has thrown an arm around my neck, only no one has. I look over my shoulder. I expect to find you right there behind me, but you’re still about twenty feet away, staring at me, wearing a familiar expression that always makes me think of a line from e.e. cummings: _“And eyes big love crumbs.”_

And you actually swipe at your left eye with the back of your hand. I can’t tell if you’re crying, or laughing, or if your eye is just giving you trouble as it does sometimes in smoky rooms with flashing lights. Whichever it is, it makes me want to plow through this crowd, knock people out of my way, just to reach you. I want you so much, so instantaneously, that my knees almost give out. I can’t imagine what my face must look like as I watch you between the bouncing heads of zillions of our very closest friends. You return my gaze and your lips part just a little.

They’re playing our song, Bono, and I want you. I want you stripped of all this artifice. I want you to my roots.

But America’s Sweetheart has business with you as well. She pats your arm and you turn to look at her. You smile, you lean so close that your nose grazes her neck. L___ has it right, there is something hungry in your face, always. My chest aches. I know I’m being ridiculous, but heartbreak is a concept I’ve begun to take literally over the last year or so.

I have to get out of here for just a couple of minutes. Find a place to shake everything off and reset myself.

*

Here’s the private room. Good. There is always a private room. The “back room.” The one we’d have been swept into if this were a normal night and if our entourage hadn’t already shut down the entire club.

Rooms like this one are dismal when closed up. Dark walls, plush chairs up on the dark tables, something gritty on the floor. The only light comes from the emergency exit sign over the metal fire door. No idea where I might find the light switches, or what they would do if I flipped them. If this room were lit up and full, it would be paradise. Empty and dark, it’s more of an ashes-to-ashes situation. Which is fine with me for the moment. 

I lean against the bar. The smell of whisky—even this evokes you. The music from the main room is muted by insulation, but not entirely. Until The End of the World has finished and the next song is Zoo Station. It’s all wrong. Playing these songs in random order is so damn wrong. How will anyone out there follow the story of the album?

I jump when the door swings open. My heart is slamming in my chest; I don’t know what’s wrong with me. But it’s you. Thank God, it’s you, unmistakable even in silhouette. You, a dark shape framed in a rectangle of throbbing lights and shifting bodies. 

You step forward and let the door swing shut behind you. Darkness again. 

“Edge?”

“Yeah.”

_“Edge.”_

You hurl yourself into my arms with enough force to almost snap my back over the bar. I knew you’d find me, I try to breathe normally while I hold you, while you wrap your arms around my neck and press your body against the length of mine. (How strong you are.) I want to throw you down on the floor and make love to you for hours. I also want to pick you up and carry you like a child. I want you to pick _me_ up like a child. I don’t know what to do with you.

“You’re killing me, Bono.” 

You murmur something, something that sounds like “what do you mean,” your lips moving against my jugular vein. How can I answer? I want you so much I can’t even think. Everything else recedes as I hold your patent leather hips between my hands and pull you toward me: the light, the noise, the designer stilettos. Even our record. Even America’s Sweetheart. She just crumples up like a magazine advert. Who cares. 

But then you raise your head, and I guess my eyes have adjusted to the dark, because I can see your face clearly. You look serious, even sober. You lay your hand on my cheek and we just study each other for a few seconds. 

“Edge, you know it’s all show business, don’t you? All of that in the other room. Them. Her. I mean—” deep breath—“I like it, I genuinely like most of those people, it’s good fun. You know I always need lots of people around me, right? But it’s not us. This is—you and I—” 

You don’t say anything else. You just let your head fall onto my shoulder. It’s not like you to be at a loss for words. If you can’t explain something, it’s because that thing is inexplicable. So I don’t say anything either. Just hold you close with one hand on the small of your back and the other one in your hair, my fingertips learning its new texture, thick and smooth as fur. 

I don’t know why I ever doubt you. You could still be out there, soaking up enough adulation for several lifetimes. But instead you’re here with me, in a dark, ugly room that smells of old spilled drinks, trying to feel the way forward. You only move away to swipe at your eye again. 

“Sorry.” 

“Let me see.” I tilt your head toward the light from the exit sign, wipe a tear from your cheek with my thumb. “Rough night out there, is it?” 

“Guess it’s a little extra smoky.” 

“It’s those fucking mini-cigars of yours that do the worst damage.” 

You make a tough little face at me. Mouth bunched up. That chin. “You’re not me da.” 

“Maybe I _should_ be your da. C’mere.” I sit down carefully on the gritty floor, put my back against the bar. Spread my legs and pat the floor between them. “Sit right here. Lean back against me.” 

You obey. Your leather trousers creak; we both laugh. I have to close my eyes for a moment when you land, right where you belong, where I want you most, with your back against my chest, your ass so very close to my cock. I want to hold you right there, right there, and for a minute I do. I hold you around the chest, mumble incoherencies into your hair. 

“Edge…” 

But it’s not the time for any of that now. “Sweetheart. Scoot down a bit.” 

“Okay…” 

“Just lean back and rest your head on my shoulder,” I say. “Close your eyes. “Are they closed?” 

“Yes Edge.” 

You’re so trusting. You just break me. 

I begin to stroke your forehead lightly with the fingertips of both hands. Starting at the center, just above your eyes, where you’re always knotted up with concentration, and moving outward toward your temples. Then I stroke your eyebrows and the skin just beneath them. Then the delicate skin under your eyes, soft enough to break my heart. Then I start all over again. I could do this all night. I can feel the tension leave your body like an expelled breath. 

“Edge, those holy fingers of yours. Talented in so many ways.” Long pause. “So many ways.” 

And I’m lost again for a moment, overcome by the memory of our last meeting in a low-lit room. A more comfortable room that time. A warm, clean room with a big bed in it. Covers kicked down to the foot, pillows scattered. You, your inky hair and your ivory skin. Your hand wrapped around my wrist. Your bird-cries. 

“You’ve been enjoying all that extra rehearsing, have you?” 

“You know I have, Edge.” 

“Ready to move on to the next act?” 

Your hands have been resting lightly on my thighs; but now you tighten your grip, slide yourself backward just a bit, and whisper, “yes.” 

A sudden thump on the wall, somewhere near the door, and we both jump. It’s an interesting feeling when your fight-or-flight response kicks in just as all the blood in your body is rushing toward your groin, but I don’t necessarily recommend it. We sit like startled rabbits, pretending to be invisible. But after a minute or two nothing else happens. The door remains closed and we are alone. 

“Jesus. I’m just not quite ready to announce our fucking plans to the general assemblage,” you mutter. 

“Our fucking plans?” 

“No, our _fucking_ plans. Word emphasis is important here, The Edge.” 

“Ah, I understand now. Well, you can just send me back out there ten, fifteen minutes before you. Like John the Baptist.” I hold up three fingers. “Who would be touched by the innermost essence of Bono? Let them come forward.” 

You twist around to stare at me, your face caught somewhere between shock and admiration. “That is vile, The Edge, and I’m surprised at you.” 

“I know. I’m a filthy bastard.” I kiss your cheek. 

“Just imagine if the press came in right now.” You go into your rapid-fire London-tabloid-reporter voice. “What _do_ rock stars get up to in the back rooms of exclusive clubs, anyway? U2's The Edge tells all!” 

“I feel strongly that this particular show should be kept private.” 

“Indeed.” You lean back against me once more; you melt into my chest. “I love you. And your magic fingers.” 

“I love you…also.” 

“Ha. Say ‘I love you too.’ Come on. Say it.” 

“No. Eyes any better?" 

“Yes.” You sigh. “Happy eyes.” 

I feel quite proud of my fingers at the moment, and of all the things that they can do for you, and to you. I wonder, can America’s Sweetheart do any of these things? Well, some of them, probably. But _would_ she. That’s the question. Also, I doubt her ability to follow through. To stick the landing, as it were. 

“Hm?” 

“Nothing, sweetheart. Just residual nervous laughter.” 

“Edge.” 

You twist around again and try to kiss me. An awkward position, as you can’t quite reach my mouth. So you rise to your knees, and straddle my thighs. You brace your hands on the bar behind me. Yes, I like you like this. I take your face between my hands and kiss your lips, your nose, your cheeks, the lid of each precious closed eye, one then the other. 

“My pretty boy.” 

That makes you smile. Your wide, Luciferian smile. I kiss each upturned corner of it. 

“What have you got going on under this ridiculous jacket, Bono?…Oh my, nothing at all. Fascinating.” 

“Yeah, well, you know.” You arch your back while I rub my face against your chest. “Chicks dig it.” 

“I want to have you, Bono. In your entirety.” With my arms already around your waist I pull you as close to me as possible. Your breathing changes, speeds up. I can feel you, hard against the hollow of my chest. I try to push you back down into my lap. I don’t know where I want you. I want you everywhere. “I could fucking devour you.” 

“Oh yeah?” You grin down at me. “Skinny boy here is gonna devour me?” 

“Don’t underestimate me, Bono. I could devour you and metabolize you in about an hour.” 

“Metabolize me? You and what army?” You lean over me, you bite my bottom lip. You run your always-warm hands up and down my bare arms. I’m on the verge of asking you to please consider running them up and down something else, but just on the other side of the wall the party is raging on and your giant amplified voice is singing about riding someone’s wild horses. “God, Edge. We need just one lost weekend. Just forty-eight hours with no phone calls, and no interviews, and no reviews being shoved in our faces.” 

“I know, I know. All of that.” 

You press your forehead against mine, forcing me to look into your eyes. Not that I mind. “But will it happen?” 

“Yes. We’ll make it happen. You’ll sneak away to my house, okay? And we’ll unplug the phone. And if anyone asks we’ll say—” 

“—you couldn’t take your calls because you were too busy _fucking_ me." 

“Oh God. Bono. My love.” 

Your face, your ridiculously mobile face shifts from lust to tenderness in a nanosecond. “You’re so funny, The Edge. You don’t seem to mind saying some pretty obscene things, as long as they’re not terribly obvious.” 

“True. It’s one of my many weaknesses.” 

“Still, I’d like to know exactly what you’re going to do to me on our lost weekend.” 

“Why? So you can plan ahead?” 

“Exactly. You know my fondness for to-do lists.” You lean down to lick my lips, upper first, then lower. “And charts.” You bite my earlobe. “And _spreadsheets_.” You whisper this right into my ear, and I know there and then that I will never hear that word again without certain involuntary physical reactions taking place. 

You lean back again and regard me, a challenging look in your eyes. And on your chin. And even on your imperious nose. And because I’m a bit drunk tonight, and still feeling possessive, I suppose I’m ready to put a few things in no uncertain terms. 

With a hand on either side of your neck I keep you close to me; I put my lips right up against your ear. “I’m going to throw you across my bed, Bono, and strip you bare,” I whisper, “and I’m going to kiss you everywhere, your entire body, your neck, your fingers, and the backs of your knees, and a few places that have never seen the light of day. And I’m going to do this for a very, _very_ long time. So you might want to bring a book or something.” 

“Edge.” 

“Then I guess I’ll just suck your cock, very slowly, and very deeply, for a very long time, until you beg me for mercy.” 

“Mm. You like doing that anyway, don’t you, Edge.” 

“Only to you, sweetheart.” 

“Only to me?” 

“Only to you, Bono.” 

“Why only me, Edge?” 

“Why is your cock the only cock I want to suck? Because. Who else but you could possibly sound so gorgeous when they come? Who else could drag out those _Ohhh’s_ the way you can? I love making you come, Bono. You pretty thing. Look, you can’t even keep still, can you. Just because I said that I love to make you come. You beauty. You’re just like an angel, do you know that?” 

"Please, Edge."

"Please what?"

“Please keep talking to me.” 

I’ve got my hands inside your jacket; your skin is getting hot. Your back. Your chest. Brief impressions of you in the dim room. Your parted lips. Your gorgeous neck, which I've been neglecting. Which I must now taste. The damp trail my tongue leaves there, lit up red by the exit sign. An erect nipple. My thumb. We’ve got to stop this. “Bono. You realize there are about five million people just on the other side of that wall, right?” 

"Who cares.” You rub yourself against me; your face is hot and damp. “Talk to me, Edge. Please. I need to hear you. What else are you gonna do to me?” 

“What do you want me to do to you, angel?” 

“You know what I want.” 

“Then say it.” 

“No, _you’re_ supposed to be talking this time.” 

“But I like your sexy voice. Come on, what do you want? Tell me. Tell me, Bono.” 

“I want you to fuck me.” 

“Bono. My love. Say it again.” 

“I want you to fuck me, Edge.” 

“And I want to fuck you.” 

“Do you?” 

“So much. You have no idea, sweetheart. How much. I want to fuck you. I think about it all the time, Bono. I think about fucking you all the time. I thought about fucking you in the studio. I thought about fucking you in that restaurant the other night. I thought about fucking you while you were out there talking to America’s Sweetheart. I imagined tearing you away from her and throwing you down and fucking you, and making her watch.” 

“Oh my God. You should have, Edge. You—” 

“I know. I know.” 

“Then fuck me. Fuck me now. Please. Edge. Please.” 

And I am just about ready. To goddamn fuck you. This ready. This close. 

But on the other side of that wall, just beyond that unlocked door, are three hundred of our closest friends and potentially closest enemies. Journalists, music industry people. Our own people, who depend on us for their livelihoods. Not to mention America’s Sweetheart. L___ and her friends. Bob Fucking Geldof is out there. Adam. Larry. Oh Christ, Larry. 

“Bono, I love you. I love you. I want you. But let’s be sensible. Let’s, um, walk this off.” 

_“Walk this off?”_

The heat, the weight of your limbs. Your post-modern Elvis is falling damply across your forehead. It's damp on my fingers. So is your face. Your face. You’re breathing so fast. I want you so much. I want nothing more than to comply with your every wish. Every single one. Until the end of the world. But— 

“Consider what is out there, sweetheart. Consider carefully.” 

You appear to be considering. Yes, you are definitely considering. I can feel you considering. You shift around—slowly, slowly—until you’re sitting beside me on the gritty floor, and it’s only then that I understand the urgency with which you’d been holding me between your thighs. I miss you already. 

“I’m sorry, Bono, I'm so sorry. But…” I wave weakly toward the door. Beyond the wall, you’re singing about running to your woman. 

“This is fucking surreal.” 

“Isn’t it.” 

“Edge, about our lost weekend—” 

"Yes. It’s happening. It’s all happening, all right?” 

And I promise, I swear, I will do anything, I will make it happen before the world tears us away from each other again. Because we’ve been in this low-lit room for quite some time now, and I’ve no doubt that people are looking for us. In another few minutes, one of us must return to the party. And the other, after a decent interval, must follow. 

_(Stay tuned for next thrilling installment!)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January, 1992. The new record is critically acclaimed, and a highly innovative and massive tour looms. But who cares. Here’s the important stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Presumably you’ve read chapter one. Chapter two is worse! I guess. I apologize if the ratio of sappiness to actual gettin’-it-on is a bit out of balance, but such is life with me, The Reluctant Pornographer®. Thanks for sticking with me. Thanks for reading, commenting, kudo-ing, or even just flying in like a spirit in the night and increasing the hit count. I have been enjoying this tiny fandom—well, “tiny” as far as this particular corner of the internet is concerned—far too much, and neglecting my other work for it. Oh well!
> 
> Um, it's possible that I stole Edge's little 'New Year's Day' reverie from likeamadonna. I didn't realize how familiar it sounded till I read this over for a third time. Maybe I stole it from someone else? Maybe I didn't steal it at all? I guess most of us know about the boys freezing their asses off while they made that video. It's part of our hive-mind and our hive-soul. 
> 
> Note: L___, who had a walk-on part in chapter one, is now simply L. A bit easier on your eyes.
> 
> MOAR note: I just feel really weird about this.

**Until the End of the World**

I might as well begin in the garden. Didn’t we all begin there, after all?

It’s January, and I’m wandering around behind my little house, awaiting your arrival. If this were summer, there would be roses of several varieties growing along the back wall, ranging in color from deep scarlet to pale gold. The rose bushes have whimsical names that I can never remember, so I make up my own: Pouty-Face O’Malley, Little Boots, Mr. Big Mouth. There would also be daisies, both pink and white, and black-eyed susans, and borders of salvia, bluebell, and marigold. 

Not that I know a damned thing about flowers, but the old fella who comes every week to look after the place keeps me informed.

The garden is dormant now, but there are red berries on the holly(!), and a crimson vine is steadily engulfing the low stone wall between this house and the next one. Little brown birds dart in and out of the hedge and bathe in the puddles. I keep meaning to put out some seed for them, but who’ll do it next month, when I’m gone to America? The old fella, I guess. I should ask him. (Note to self.)

I’ve always liked winter. I think you can hear that in our music. There is something energizing about the cold; it quickens your step and sharpens your vision. No meandering guitar solos in winter; your hands are too cold for that.

Do you remember filming the video for ‘New Year’s Day?’ My fingers had turned to icicles and your face had gone numb, and between takes I was holding your face in my gloved hands, and you were holding your gloved hands on top of mine. Trying to warm up the important bits of each other. No one thought anything of it.

*

New Year, new you, as the adverts say. I spent Christmas with the extended family. All the grandparents. Things were a little tense as they always are, and bittersweet, but we did our best for the girls and I believe they were happy. A week later I was a free agent at your New Year’s party. Your house was so crowded that people were nearly falling out the windows. Such a happy home, so filled with light. It’s plain that you and Ali adore each other. It makes sense. Both of you are exquisite little people, with tiny exquisite daughters.

I held Eve for a while before you put her to bed. She was in that quiet-alert state that babies sometimes go into just before they fall asleep. A warm little bundle on my chest. How she studied me with those intelligent blue eyes that are so much like yours. 

L. was there too—another free agent. We stuck close together, and we had a bit of a cuddle at midnight. That was nice, but she caught me more than once staring across the room at you and Ali. I was feeling hollow, like something had been scooped out of my chest. You know, or maybe you don’t, that sense of being absolutely alone on a molecular level, when all you want to do is hold the person you’re _meant_ to be holding. And why does the world always conspire to keep that from happening? 

L. said, “it’s okay, Edge. I know.”

I played dumb of course. But she does know.

*

It’s a week past the New Year now. I’ve cleaned up my house, as if you’re someone I have to impress, as if you haven’t been here a million times and borne witness to the usual level of squalor—pedals on the living room floor and extension cords draped over the couch, picks lost under the cushions, broken strings on the coffee table. And in the midst of all that, me, trying to fix a cassette with a ballpoint pen.

So I’ve cleaned up, and I’ve filled up the refrigerator in your honor. There’s ice cream in the freezer, and, on top of the kitchen-island thing that I rarely use, a bottle of Jameson’s.

I even bought new sheets for the bed, which is ridiculous, given that the tour will keep me away from the house for—what, a couple of years? But we might as well enjoy the feeling of being home before true homelessness sets in. I’ve scattered little candles here and there around the bedroom. I feel a bit silly. What’s next, I wonder, scarves over the lamps? Sexy lingerie? (Note to self.)

*

When you arrive at my front door, you’re holding three small gray rocks in your hands, cradled against the black wool of your winter coat.

“What’s all this?”

“Rocks.”

“Yes, I can see that.” I hold the door open for you to step inside. “Why rocks?”

“I picked them up on the beach this morning.” You hold the rocks toward me in your outstretched hands. They’re small, smooth, and oval-shaped, with strange white markings: circles, spirals, and slashes. You can find similar ones all over the beach at Killiney, but these three give me a little chill at the back of the neck. Maybe it’s the way you’re cradling them in your hands, as if they’re alive, and breakable. One rock has a small solid circle at the center, like a staring eye. “I thought about bringing flowers, but it’s winter, and I hate the idea of bringing stuff from a florist. Stuff that’s already dead.”

I am almost afraid to touch you. You in the light of day seem to be a wholly different creature from the you who clung to me just a few weeks ago, in the back room of that club, begging to be fucked. How you stare at me. Your hair is so black, your face so white. You’re more beautiful now than you’ve ever been. 

“But rocks aren’t alive either, Bono,” is all I can say.

“No, but these rocks are like us. We’re elemental. We’re wind and water and whatever those big cliffs are made of. And now that I’ve taken them out of the elements, these rocks will never erode. They’ll never be diminished.”

You put the rocks into my hands. They feel glassy and cold. I hold them for a moment before setting them down gently on the table in the hallway. Then I open my arms, and you rush in. You odd little man, you beautiful boy, you most remarkable, thoughtful best mate. You throw your arms around my neck. Your hair, your coat smell of the outdoors. Woodsmoke and dry leaves, and yes, a hint of the ocean.

“I was thinking about flowers too,” I whisper into your neck. “But since this is actually a _de_ -flowering for both of us—”

“Edge.” You laugh and push me away, and take your coat off, and try to hang it on the closet doorknob. Naturally it slides to the floor.

“Let me hang it up properly.”

“Sure.” You shrug. “When was the last time you deflowered someone, anyway?”

“Oh my God.” 

“Well?”

“I’m not telling you _anything_ , Bono.” I hang your coat in the hall closet and close the door. “I mean, when I think about how young I was…” 

“Yeah, we all were, weren’t we.”

We were. And I suppose I worked up to that other deflowering in the standard fashion. We didn’t really make a fuss. I probably should have. Maybe things would have gone better in the long run. All the ceremonial stuff, the little gifts and special treats that neither of us thought we cared about because we weren’t bourgeois like the old folks. Maybe I should have cared more about those little things. 

“Look Bono, all I want to think about right now is you. Come here.”

Once again you rush at me, like a tidal wave in boots. You don’t know your own strength. But I don’t mind stumbling a few steps backward into the wall. I’m so happy that you’re here.

“I’ve missed you, The Edge.”

“Sweetheart. Do you want anything? A drink, or—?”

“Maybe later. Just kiss me.”

I obey. I kiss you the way I wanted to do on New Year’s Eve, holding your face between my hands, breathing you in. Savoring the taste of you, your lips and tongue. You’re already falling apart, giving yourself over to me the way you always do, your head tilted all the way back. Exposing your neck. I can’t resist that. My teeth want it—your skin and sinew.

There are two warring factions within me. One says mark him, claim him as your own. The other says I’ll kill you if you hurt him, I’ll kill anything that hurts him.

I choose not to leave a mark. Yet. You’re a torment to me, clinging, twining yourself around me. Never still, never quiet. Mr. Big Mouth, the reddest rose in the garden. Hot hands under my shirt, up my back, hooked over my shoulders; all _Edge, Edge, Edge,_ like a porn actress. And we haven’t even left the hallway yet. I could tear you apart and you would let me. You scare me to death.

“Bono…” I locate your hands. This is not easy, as you seem to have more than two. But I find them and remove them gently from my person. “Save some energy. We both know how uncomfortable this hallway is.”

“True. My knees haven’t recovered fully from last time.”

And there go the floodgates in my brain, unloosing a swarm of favorite images and contradictory pet names: _angel, kitten, hummingbird_ —even _peanut_ , for Christ’s sake. Where do they all come from? But I say nothing, and wave you toward the bedroom.

*

When you see the candles—just a few little votives here and there, on the dresser, on the bedside table—you laugh. “You lovely man.”

“Are they silly?”

“No! So thoughtful.” Still smiling. The smile that used to be too wide for your little face. It fits you perfectly now. “Have you considered opening a bed-and-breakfast? A romantic getaway, right in the heart of Dublin?”

“You do think they’re silly.”

“I don’t, I don’t. With the blue sheets and curtains, and the candlelight—the room is glowing like a little chapel.”

“That’s appropriate then, because I worship you.”

“Edge.” You take my hand and press it to your lips. “I think you’ll find it’s the other way around.”

I have to catch my breath, because I believe you. But I also know I will never quite believe you. 

It doesn’t matter.

“Get in my bed. Come on.”

The candles do give the room a churchy aura, though I prefer the idea of an undersea cave dappled with sunlight. In any case I’ve made a good choice with the blue sheets, which are nearly the same color as your eyes. And every article of clothing I remove reveals your pearlescent skin. “Snow White,” I murmur against your hip.

“Did you just call me Snow White? I’m a man, dammit.” 

“You’re a selkie. You brought me treasure from the sea.”

“You’ve become so poetic, The Edge.”

“Well, look who I hang around with.”

Just look. You’re naked, you’re gorgeous, and already hard. There is no part of you I haven’t touched; there is no part of you I wouldn’t touch again and again. I’d happily give up the band and make a career out of touching you. ( _Hot Press_ publishes five-part series on the tragic demise of U2…)

“What are you smiling about?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Yes, I would, Edge—oh.”

There. I’ve taken you in my mouth, just a bit, just a tease. You are gratifyingly silent. But not for long.

“Edge…this little braid of yours is quite a convenient handle.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Sorry. Yes, that’s its main function.”

“Anyway, when are you going to fuck me?”

“Bono.” 

“Edge?”

“I’m not just going to go charging in there like a juggernaut.”

You laugh with your entire body, like a child, or like a man who has nothing on earth to worry about. “Oh, do you ever have a way with words.” 

“Listen, _you’re_ the word guy. You do your job and I’ll do mine.”

“I’m the word guy, am I?”

“You are.” I’m distracted now. I am, possibly, a little scared. I’m happy just to lean on my elbow for a moment, to slide the palm of my hand slowly down your chest, your belly, your hip. Just to look at you. Your face vivid as a paper cutout among the blue pillows. The look that I’ve been trying to catch on film for years. Eyes narrowed, catlike, delighted with whatever you’re seeing. Right now, it’s me.

“Dammit Bono.” Because I don’t know what to say. 

“Dammit yourself, Edge. You’re gorgeous, do you know that? Come here. I want to kiss you into oblivion. I want to hear your voice in my ear.”

“Anything you want. Anything.”

Your arms. Your hands, that you once compared to the hands of a bricklayer. (Bricks should be so lucky.) You are your own force of gravity, pulling me toward you. I couldn’t fight it if I tried. I don’t want to.

“Edge. My skinny boy.”

“Yes. I’m your skinny boy. Yours. Just yours.”

“With your perfect face, like a marble saint.”

I look down at our bodies moving against each other. Muscles working beneath the skin. Both of us furred with dark hair in similar places, but in different patterns. You. You. The curve of your hip, generous, almost feminine, though I’ve never told you that. I will tell you someday; I know you won’t mind. Your beautiful cock, silky-hard, which I take in my hand. “I’m no saint.”

“You are. You are. Trust me… I know you.”

“Pretty boy.” 

“I want to see your face, Edge. I want to see your face when you fuck me.”

“God, every time you say that… are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m sure. I want to see you. You know, the way you and I can communicate without speaking. I want to be able to see your eyes. I feel we have a—God, Edge, stop.”

You place your hand over mine and I let you go, reluctantly.

“Just give me what I want, all right?”

“Anything you want, Bono. Anything.”

You kiss my forehead, my nose, my lips. “You. I want you. Beautiful Edge.”

*

Rummaging around on the bedside table for small necessities feels reassuringly familiar, and also deeply strange. I knock something to the floor; not sure what it is. It lands with a plasticky sound.

“Your sunglasses?”

“Not mine. They’re in my coat. Just watch out for the candles, Edge.”

“The candles really amuse you, don’t they.”

“It’s just that getting rescued by the fire department at this time would be very, very uncomfortable. _‘Bono and Edge in Flagrante Delicto; Flee Flaming Love Nest!”_

“Jaysis.”

You make fire engine sounds as I laugh against your neck. 

Then you’re quiet once more, and I watch your face and listen to you breathe. Watch the way your body moves, taut, then fluid, then taut. Your lips parted, but your eyes closed, briefly, on some private vision. I hope I’m at least a part of it. 

“Edge…”

“Yes sweetheart.”

I’ve never wanted someone as much as I want you right now, pressed against your flank, my fingers inside you, waiting for your next request.

*

I can’t remember the last time I was this hesitant, this careful about anything. Maybe cradling a newborn’s head. But that’s a wildly inappropriate thought. Or is it? Same disquieting wash of emotion: _I will kill anything that hurts you. I will—_

“Edge…”

“My love. Is this okay?”

“Yes. Very okay. Exceptional.”

“Good.”

“Are _you_ okay?”

Oh angel-kitten-hummingbird, you cannot even imagine how very okay I am. I have no words to describe it, so you’ll have to read my eyes, interpret my kiss.

You’re so beautiful, Bono. I have never seen anyone as beautiful as you are right now. What did L. say about your face that time—that you look like a hungry demon, that you look like you want to eat the world and then fuck it. Or the other way around. And my God, she was right. Even in repose you look like you’re fucking something. And more so when you’re not in repose.

Yet your eyes tell a different story. Tender, a little haunted, a little lost. 

“Edge. You don’t have to be so gentle. Please. Just fuck me. Fuck me.”

God. Every time you say that, those two fucking monosyllables…

“Fuck me…” A whisper this time.

“I am fucking you. I am fucking you, baby.”

Ah, you like to hear me say that. (Note to self.)

I am fucking you, but I’m taking my time, proceeding with caution. Because I remember every time your crowd-surfing went wrong, every time the adoration turned to bacchanalian violence. I remember your every episode of thoughtless climbing, to heights I got dizzy just looking at. I worried more than once that you would do a swan-dive. Anything to break through to a crowd, or to break the bonds of physical reality. You wanted transcendence. You want it now. I do too. So much. But maybe we can’t have it tonight, no matter how much you beg, or how deeply I want to bury myself in you. 

Or maybe I’m wrong. What do I know about transcendence anyway? Have I ever felt such a thing? You’re in my bed. In this dimension. With me. Your astonishing legs hooked over my shoulders. Your beautiful up-tilted body, bolstered by pillows. Me, moving inside you. Both of us staring down at ourselves in disbelief.

“Edge, my love. Touch me. Please.”

The privilege of making you come. Your eyes open, staring into mine, until you have no choice but to close them, to throw your head back. Your neck again, that miracle of a neck, its tendons and blood vessels so close to the surface. My teeth. I’d be a vampire for you. Your throat working. Your voice, your voice. Your hands pressing me deeper inside you, and I’m afraid I can’t fight you anymore; I have to go where you want me to go. Your voice, bird-cries and oh’s, and my name, again and again, and if I could record you right now I would, and broadcast it around the world, make the whole world come like I am right now, inside you, inside you, deep, warm, where I belong, where I’ve always belonged.

*

“Edge.”

“Mm.”

“Say something.”

_“Cariad bach.”_

“What does that mean?”

“‘Little darling,’ more or less.”

“I like it. Have you any more Welsh endearments?”

“Not really. Have you any Irish ones?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

_“Wanker.”_

“Right, get out of my bed and don’t ever come back.”

“Must I really?”

“No. Never.”

“Edge, I love you. And—wait, listen to me. You don’t have to say anything, and it’s all right if you don’t feel quite the same way, but I really believe I’ve loved you since the very beginning. Maybe even before that.”

My heart. A winter garden in bloom suddenly, red as a Mr. Big Mouth rose. You’re resting your head right there, maybe you can feel it. “Before the beginning? How does that work?” 

“In another life. In heaven. I don’t know.”

“Look, you’re giving me the chills.”

“That means you know I speak the truth.” You yawn luxuriously. You are molded into my side. Both of us a bit of a mess.

“It’s getting late. What did you—”

“Tour planning. I said we’d probably be up till the wee hours, that I might sleep on your couch.”

“Oh Bono.”

“I know. But I think she knows anyway.”

I decide not to pursue this for now. I feel your leg trembling. “Are you really okay, sweetheart?”

“Mm. A little sore, in the best way possible.”

“Well. I think I’m going to go fill up the tub for us, and I also think we could both use a drink, at minimum.

“Yes please. What have you got?”

“Everything. Water. Wine. Juice. Whiskey.”

“Juice. And whiskey. But not in the same glass.”

“I would not have presumed otherwise.”

“Just checking. You never know; all that thrusting could have dislodged your brain.”

“Bono.”

“It happened to a guy in Booterstown. I read about it in _The Sun._ ”

“Simmer down.”

I have to cross the hall to get to the kitchen, and there, on the table by the wall, in the light of the faux-victorian sconce I would never have chosen for myself, are the three rocks you picked up on Killiney Strand. They’re safe now in my house, out of reach of water, wind, and weather. As you said, now they will never erode; they will never be diminished. They will be here until the end of the world.

In a minute, I’ll go get your drinks, and bring them back to you. And then the two of us will soak in a hot tub, and for the remainder of the night, no part of us will feel sore or lonely or cold. But first I’ll pick up the rocks again, just for a few seconds, and warm them against my heart.


End file.
